


Le Canard de Malchance

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, bossuet grabs a mobile at some point okay, but unspecified modern!AU, modern!AU, roll with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:11:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bossuet has to go out, and Joly doesn’t approve because it’s raining and oh my god, Bossuet, don’t you know that rain leads to sickness, and sickness leads to death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Canard de Malchance

“You can’t go outside right now,” Joly whined, pulling the blankets up to his ears. Bossuet smiled and buttoned his shirt. 

“You always find reasons for me to stay in.”

“Because it’s stupid to invite illness.”

“Joly, it’s rain -- not the plague.”

“Do you even know what influenza can do to the human body?”

Bossuet would have laughed if he’d thought Joly was joking -- but he wasn’t. He never joked about that sort of thing, and if it wasn’t so irresistibly sweet, it may have been a problem.

Bossuet grabbed a scarf and wrapped it snugly around his neck. “I’m prepared, you see?” Joly pouted, and Bossuet sighed. “What more should I do?”

“Wear my raincoat.”

“It won’t fit me.”

“It will.”

Bossuet’s mouth thinned. 

It might fit -- might, if he didn’t mind walking like a duck. But he did mind, and quite a lot, because it didn’t help at all that Joly’s raincoat was bright yellow. With his thin, angular frame, Joly wore it and looked a bit like a banana. 

Bossuet, on the other hand... the avian presence haunted him, and although he wasn’t terribly opposed to his title, he sought to steer clear of any additions to his name.

Joly watched him like he was going to his doom. 

“You’re being melodramatic again. You spent too much time with Courfeyrac.”

“Possibly, but nonetheless, I want you to stay,” Joly answered. He bounced and scooted until there was just enough space on the bed beside him for someone of Bossuet’s size to fit. He even tantalisingly lifted the corner of his blanket and gave Bossuet his best impression of Jehan’s puppy dog eyes. 

Bossuet felt a tug in his chest, pulling him in the direction of the bed. But he couldn’t stay -- he knew that. He dug his phone from his pocket and carefully dialled a number -- he’d learned long ago not to trust his speed dial. 

“Who are you calling?” Joly asked, suddenly concerned. 

“My sweet Musichetta,” he began, as a woman picked up the phone at the other end. He couldn’t finish, however, as she interrupted him with a barrage of laughter. Bossuet made a face and Joly -- losing control of his pout -- his his mouth behind the blanket. 

“What do you need from me, my eagle?” Musichetta asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, as she so often did. 

“Your love? Your companionship? Your fine cooking?”

“You have all three routinely,” she answered. 

“Tell her to come over,” Joly insisted. 

Bossuet quirked an eyebrow. “She’s allowed to go out in the rain, but I’m not?”

“You’re frail and frequently subject to injury,” Musichetta explained, without having heard Joly. 

“I am not frail,” Bossuet protested. 

“I don’t want you to get sick,” Joly said. “Either of you!” And with that he wailed and flopped backwards.

“Joly has died,” Bossuet explained. 

“As he often does,” Musichetta added. “I’ll be there in ten minutes with soup to revive him.”

Joly offered up a single croak from his eiderdown funeral bower. Bossuet couldn’t resist a wide smile. “I have to go out,” he explained to Musichetta. “I’ll be back in an hour.”  
“Bring us presents,” Musichetta instructed. Bossuet could hear her keys jangling in her hands -- how he loved that charming, sweet girl. 

“Anything for you,” he told her, and hung up. Joly still hadn’t moved. Bossuet refused to approach the bed -- if he did, he would never leave. “I’ll be back soon,” he offered quietly. 

Joly didn’t answer. 

“I’ll bring you chocolate.”

“Overindulgence in chocolate can lead to lead poisoning, obesity, and osteoporosis,” Joly moaned. 

Bossuet couldn’t stop himself -- he was grinning from ear to ear. The others found Joly’s hypochondria annoying, and in some respects, he understood. There was nothing Joly could not find danger in -- but as he lived with a man unlucky enough to have danger as his guardian angel, his concern wasn’t unwelcome. If anything, it was helpful. 

But Joly had played the chocolate card one too many times, and Bossuet knew the answers. 

“I’m not buying chocolate from Nigeria, we’ll find ways to exercise, and you know that’s still not proven.”

“It might be.”

“Isn’t it restricted to people of a certain age?”

“Irrelevant,” Joly mumbled.

“Very relevant,” Bossuet said. “I’m going now. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Joly made a sniffling sound. 

“Musichetta will be here in … eight minutes. She’s bringing you soup.”

Joly sat upright so quickly that his head spun. “Is she?”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Bossuet said again. He turned and slipped out of the room before Joly could bring up the raincoat again -- but from the bedroom, the young doctor-to-be called after him. 

“I’ll miss you!”

Bossuet paused with his hand on the door to their small, shared apartment. “You always do,” he answered jovially. It was his way of saying: “I’ll miss you, too.”

Joly sank back into his blankets with a happy sigh.


End file.
